


Dreaming of the Stars

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: 19th Century Artists, 19th Century CE France RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Artists RPF, Paul Gauguin RPF, The Yellow House (2007), Vincent van Gogh RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 13:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: Paul and Vincent return from a night of drinking and have sex as usual, but this simple physical act hints at a deeper truth: the desire they feel for each other is overlaid with love - a love so powerful, it's terrifying.





	Dreaming of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This story belongs to the same series as Le Mistral and Le Fée Verte, except there's no particular time or date beyond late summer in Arles.
> 
> I used quotes from Vincent's actual correspondence, blended with my own words. Paul's thoughts and speech are largely my own, although I did read some quotes of his to get a feeling for his syntax.

Dreaming of the Stars

…the sight of the stars makes me dream. ~ Vincent van Gogh

So many days begin with a letter, or end with a letter. There is always a letter somewhere in between. _Dear Theo, I am trying with all my might to begin, and to keep on going…what would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?_ He must, it seems, document his every waking moment, to reassure himself that these things occurred, that he himself exists.

_Dear Theo, I cannot thank you enough for persuading Gauguin to come to me. Since his arrival, I have been painting like the madman I am, for hours at a stretch, while time flows past me like some great elemental river…_

The stars are forever swirling above him, in his mind and in his dreams as well, spinning like dervishes. His fingertips are swirling now, tracing intricate patterns in the thick, dark hair of Gauguin’s chest. It’s early in the morning and already punishingly hot. They have spent the night together, sleeping in Gauguin’s bed, tucked under the eaves of the yellow house. They passed some hours in the brothel, in the company of those ‘little good women’ as Vincent calls them, drinking wine and listening to rough music being played by a rag-tag collection of locals recruited from the streets of Arles. Gauguin spent much of the evening dancing; Vincent does not dance, not now or ever. He amused himself with watching. Gauguin is broadly theatrical in his movements, executed complicated steps, leaping into the air like a gazelle, landing lightly on his feet to laugh and twirl the women at the end of his arm, whirling them like spinning tops.

They wandered home together, arm-in-arm, swaying like drunks and singing. In truth, the rough red wine was nowhere near strong enough for true intoxication, not for Vincent, who loves absinthe. The night was suffocatingly hot, with very little wind, the kind of heat that draws moisture to the surface of the skin and slicks the lips with salt. _Dear Theo, I am so drunk I can hardly stand and truly, I cannot seem to make myself care._ They fell against the front door laughing, Gauguin fumbling in all his pockets for the keys, cursing himself when they dropped from his fingers. _Stop laughing, Vincent. This is your damn fault, all of it._

Why did they even bother to keep the door locked? There was nothing in the yellow house to steal. They left no evidence behind. Everything occurred behind the shuttered windows, when they were alone in the dark. Gauguin finally got the door open and they tumbled into the room. Vincent tripped over something and Gauguin caught him. _Watch where you’re putting your feet._ He held Vincent by the upper arms, and there was moonlight enough to see Vincent’s face, his wide open blue-green eyes, the jut of his nose and chin, the curve of his mouth. He traced Vincent’s lips with his rough, work-stained thumbs, then leaned in and kissed him – slowly, tenderly, with some genuine feeling. This was new. Vincent clung to him, his pinioned arms reaching to hold Gauguin’s shoulders, until Gauguin released his hold, clasped Vincent’s face between his palms. _Are you tired, Vincent?_

_Not particularly._

_Still…_ A grin that came and went. _We should probably go to bed._

_Whose?_

Gauguin didn’t bother to answer. Language was superfluous. He drew Vincent to his bed and laid him down, and they kissed for a long time, luxuriously, sweetly, letting the lust between them build until it was nearly unendurable. He had never seen Gauguin so ravaged by desire, not like this, so that his body trembled like one taken with a fever. He ran the palms of his hands under Gauguin’s shirt and down his sides. He gripped his muscled buttocks and the backs of his thighs, touching everywhere except the place where Gauguin wanted to be touched the most, and all the while Gauguin lay and looked at him, looked deep into his eyes with an absolute trust Vincent had never seen in another. He was offering permission, allowing Vincent to take him, to possess him, if that was what he wanted. Vincent drew back, tugging at the hem of Gauguin’s shirt. _Take it off,_ he whispered. He stepped back from the bed and pulled his own shirt over his head, tossing it away. His slender torso – those muscles were always a surprise, no matter how often Gauguin saw them – gleamed like polished ivory. The first time they made love, he ran his hands over Vincent’s naked chest, astonished at the solid bulk of him, the muscular substance of his chest and shoulders, his powerful forearms. He would have loved to paint Vincent naked, but he knew Vincent would never allow it. _I have gazed upon this body and this visage far too often, Paul. I know what I look like._

_Then you know how beautiful you are._

Vincent kicked off his shoes, and unbuttoned his drawers, and let them fall. Gauguin sat up, looking, and his looking went everywhere. He’d dropped his shoes just inside the front door, and now he wriggled out of his trousers. No drawers, as usual. This detail always made Vincent smile. _Dear Theo, I am a man of passions, capable of and subject to doing more or less foolish things – which I happen to regret, more or less, afterwards._

 _No regrets,_ he told himself. Gauguin stood up and came to him, embracing him, laying his head on Vincent’s shoulder. They held their bodies close, breathing together, as one body, until Gauguin raised passion-weighted eyes to him. _Come to bed, Vincent. Truly, I am hungry for you._

They moved like figures in a dream, Gauguin lying beneath and Vincent above. Vincent was lighter, smaller than Gauguin, yet his body pressed on him like a blanket made of warm and living stone. Gauguin opened his legs so Vincent could settle between them, and put his palms flat against Vincent’s back. They had made love before, several times. From the very moment Gauguin arrived in Arles, there seemed to be no question that they would become lovers. It was predestined. Although there was still the uncomfortable matter of Gauguin’s portrait of Vincent, who could find nothing charitable to say about it. _Yes, it is a portrait of me,_ he allowed, _but it is me gone insane!_ He seemed to think Gauguin intended the painting as an insult, even though Gauguin had protested otherwise. _You have made me ugly._ There was always some making up to do, the necessary soothing of hurt feelings that usually culminated in domestic peace and Gauguin inviting Vincent into his bed. _Come sleep in mine tonight. It’s bigger. We’ll be comfortable._ They might lie talking for hours, but they always made love in some fashion.

Gauguin would never allow Vincent to physically penetrate him, and that was all right, since Vincent had little real idea about how such a thing would work. They pleasured each other well enough with hands and mouths, bodies clasped together and rocking in the darkness. Vincent had some insecurities about his erotic prowess, which made Gauguin wonder who had initially schooled him in the art of love, who had taken him from a boy to a man. _Stop worrying so much…act in accordance with your own feelings._ Vincent was so inherently sensual, so alive in his own skin. There was no need of worry. _Your body will know what to do._

_Dear Theo, I can’t live without love. I wouldn’t care a fig for life if there wasn’t something infinite, something deep, something real. The coming together of two compatible bodies is merely mechanical, a physical reflex. What I long for with all my heart is the meeting of two souls._

They moved together slowly, gently, gazing at each other, not speaking. Gauguin made little sounds of pleasure, the muscles in his face twitching as Vincent drove him onward. His eyelids began to flutter as he approached the final crisis, and Vincent watched as the rising tide of ultimate pleasure overtook him and dragged him under. Gauguin groaned, his body jerking, hips connecting with Vincent’s swollen cock until Vincent’s release boiled up in him and overflowed. He moaned quietly, a discreet whimper that reverberated through Gauguin’s very bones. _Ah, Vincent, so beautiful you are. So beautiful._ And then they lay together for a long time, each clasped in the other’s embrace, the slight breeze from the open window cooling the sweat on their bodies.

Vincent slept, dreaming of an indigo night sky and the rugged spirals of all the flaming stars, the great gyre of the galaxy whirling and spinning about the heavens – perfect, immortal and unchanging. He awoke when pale daylight lay about the corners of the room, and it seemed like hours and days had passed him by. Paul was awake, lying on his side, looking at him. Vincent went into his embrace and kissed him, and laid his head on Gauguin’s shoulder, and drew his fingertips through the thick, dark hair on Gauguin’s chest. He and Vincent had become emotionally entangled, Gauguin thought, and he suspected this might not be for the best, that they were two very different personalities and maybe something unfortunate was bound to happen. Something that might break Vincent, might break them both. To admit the true depth of his feelings for Vincent would be a grave mistake. He could not ever utter those words. He could not make that fatal error. _I love you, _he thought, and a sharp dagger of fear pierced him to the bone. _Vincent, I am in love with you.___

__  
_ _

No, he could not ever say such things. _Where shall we paint today?_

_Let’s go out past the Roman ruins. I want to see the trees again._

_Paul Gauguin, I love you,_ Vincent thought, but he knew he could never say the words aloud. He couldn’t promise anything – a life beyond the present moment seemed fantastical, impossible. He would take those words to his grave. He would seal them deep inside his heart forever.

 _A good choice,_ Gauguin said as he got out of bed. _Shall we pack a picnic lunch?_ In public, in the streets of Arles, he would be safe. In the dusty streets of Arles a great many things often went unsaid, and that was as it should be.

That was as it must be.


End file.
